


home is where the heart lies

by brevity_ofwit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (again kind of but just in case), (light), (not graphic but kinda mentioned), Choking, Dom/sub, Geralt is in love with Jaskier, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a drama queen, Jaskier is in love with Geralt, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, jaskier has writers block bc he thinks Geralt doesn't love him, jokes on him bc Geralt's been hinting at his feelings FOR YEARS, not a ton of smut but its mentioned and some ppl commented i needed to add it to the tags, they're both morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevity_ofwit/pseuds/brevity_ofwit
Summary: Jaskier, after weeks of writer's block, has had enough. His heart can't take not knowing, can't take Geralt not knowing, any longer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 115





	home is where the heart lies

**Author's Note:**

> pls don't roast me for this lmao 
> 
> btw this is enbeta'd. I wrote it at 3 a.m. and have decided to post what I have lest I overthink and just delete the entire thing. Please enjoy! <3
> 
> UPDATE, PLEASE READ:  
> I edited the tags to add any potentially triggering/upsetting material, as well as updating the maturity rating of the fic itself. I deeply apologize for not doing so when I originally posted. Thank you to those that brought it to my attention, and I will not make this mistake again. 
> 
> To be more specific of what you're about to read: there is foreplay, as well as non-graphic smut, and choking does come into play. There are light dom/sub undertones as well.
> 
> Please let me know if I missed anything, but I do ask that you be kind in doing so. While I can appreciate the place that my readers are coming from, as an abuse survivor myself, I do not want to have to respond to several angry and condescending comments. I will try to be more conscientious of the content I put out there, but I cannot be held responsible for others' reactions. 
> 
> Thank you for understanding.

Jaskier is struggling. 

The young bard often is; a man of equal parts music, heartbreak, and adventure, he frequently found himself in the midst of a struggle. He’s wormed his way in and out of countless affairs, perilous quests, totally disastrous performances. He’s even managed to attract the attention of multiple very beautiful but _very dangerous_ people-- human and inhuman alike-- and make it through till morning unscathed. Funnily enough, there was a time when he’d been seeing a particularly feisty deity from the north; breath-taking ( _literally_ ), unspeakably strong, dripping ancient knowledge and power with every step. He had been kept so much on his toes that he was sure he’d lose them-- and probably more, but he’d written his lover a song and bid them adieu with little more than an _incredibly_ blackened right eye. 

He’s getting sidetracked. 

The point is that Jaskier is quick on his feet, a swift learner, and has a boundless imagination that can do just as much good as it sometimes does bad. However, he finds these attributes useless in the face of his newest threat. 

“I’ve lost it.”

“Lost what?” asks his companion of many years, a world-weary and devilishly handsome Witcher prone to long-silences and harsh but often meaningless words. 

“Everything!” Jaskier exclaims, then falls to his knees on the soggy dirt of the forest floor, clothes be damned. With his hands held open up to the sky, he laments, “My muse has abandoned me, forsaken me to a life of drab and drear, where no one remembers my name and my lyrics are lost to time.” 

His hands drop to his side and he sinks with them, sulking back against the tree he had previously been leaning his forehead against. Geralt rolls his eyes. 

“What are you on about now?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I haven’t written a _single_ word in _weeks_ , Geralt! Do you know what happens to a bard that can’t write?” 

“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me. . .” he mutters.

“They die! They are struck down by time and never heard from again.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s perfectly dramatic! The truth is often so,” Jaskier says. Geralt can hear the thunk of his head against the tree trunk and inwardly sighs, resigning himself to another night of Jaskier’s antics. He sets his mortar and pestle to the side and rolls his herbs back into their cloth for the night. 

“I might as well be dead,” Jaskier moans pitifully from across their camp. 

Geralt fights the urge to roll his eyes again. He decides humoring Jaskier is the best course of action if he wants to get any potion-making done that night. “What are you struggling with this time?”

“That’s exactly it, Geralt,” he says, “I’m not struggling, I’ve already lost. I am defeated, lying cold and dead in the smoldering ruins of my once lustrous career.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns.

He sulks back into himself. The camp is silent for a few moments, save for the crackle of fire beneath their roasting dinner, and the faint flutter and scuffle of tree-life around them. Geralt tends to their meal, pulling apart the tender meat from its spit to check that it’s fully cooked then handing Jaskier his share, content to let his vexed friend come to him when he’s calm. It doesn’t take long; Jaskier hardly takes one bite of his rabbit before he’s speaking again. 

“I can’t seem to figure out this one song. . . Really more of a genre, though it hardly even is.” He doesn’t wait for a response. “See, any good bard can play drinking songs, ballads, blues. Usually, they find their crowd and they stick to it. But to be a master, a true master bard, one must be able to play all types of music. They must be able to reach not only everyone in an audience but _every_ audience.”

“You’re already a master bard,” Geralt interjects, hoping a compliment will soothe what he predicts is another long and drawn out tangent of self-loathing and career-death.

“But I’m not if I can’t write a gods-be-damned ‘coming home’ song!” Jaskier’s chest is heaving and his cheeks are flushed and he’s pulling at his fringe like he does when he’s about to cry. Geralt is alarmed, but also incredibly confused. 

“What the hell is a ‘coming home’ song?” Geralt asks, praying to Melitele that Jaskier won’t start crying.

“I don’t bloody know!” Jaskier yells, and then to Geralt’s surprise, he throws his notebook and pencil away from him. It lands in a heap just before Roach, who eyes Jaskier reproachfully for a moment before going back to grazing around her makeshift dock.

The air shifts around them, weighed down by the frustration rolling off Jaskier in waves. They finish their meal in a tense silence, Geralt preoccupied with the jack-hammer heartbeat across from him and the covert eye-wipes he pretends, for Jaskier’s sake, not to see. He finishes his rabbit before Jaskier and decides to pack away his things for the night. He stands and makes for their sleeping rolls tucked against the tree Roach is hitched to, then takes a moment to throw a blanket over Roach’s back and smooth down her neck as an apology by proxy. She inclines her head in understanding, then nudges him backward toward the fire.

Jaskier has finished his food and is leaning against the tree trunk again, looking just as dejected as he’d last been. Geralt sighs, then sets out their rolls side by side, taking care that enough space is between Jaskier’s roll and the stones marking the fire pit. Once that’s accomplished, he lays down himself, rolling out his shoulders as he feels each disc in his spine decompress. He lets himself enjoy the mild agony that comes with his muscles leaching their tension, exhaling deeply, and then shifting onto his side for sleep. His back is to Jaskier, but he can tell he’s being watched. 

“Going to sit there all night wallowing, or are you going to join me before the fire dies out?” 

A beat of silence, a defeated sigh, and then the tell-tale rustling of Jaskier getting to his feet and shrugging out of his doublet and boots before Jaskier presses in between the fire and Geralt’s chest. For a while, they simply lie there, Jaskier watching the twinkle of stars between tree branches and Geralt watching the reflection of it in Jaskier’s eyes. Then Jaskier turns to him and meets his gaze, looking apologetic. 

“Don’t,” Geralt stops him, then wraps his arm firmly around him. 

“The sentiment stands,” Jaskier retorts. “I _am_ sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to blow up like that.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, then jokes, “I’m not the one you threw your notebook at.”

As if on cue, Roach whinnies from her post and they both look back at her with laughter. 

“Oh, very well,” Jaskier playfully acquiesce, shooting a mock-smile at her who, as a horse, manages to look very bemused.

Eventually, their eyes make their way back to each other, and Jaskier heaves another sigh. He reaches out and cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair, gently working through the tangles he’d amassed throughout their day of travel. Geralt runs his hand gently up and down Jaskier’s side, enjoying the feeling of Jaskier’s deft hands at work on his scalp. A purr builds up in his chest and Jaskier lets out a happy hum at it. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt asked, cautious. Jaskier’s hand movements slow, then stop completely as he withdraws into himself.

“No,” Jaskier replies. “Yes.”

“I’m listening.” Geralt shifts closer to Jaskier and rubs soothing circles into his back. “What is a ‘coming home’ song?”

“It’s a song of relief,” Jaskier starts, searching for the right words. “It’s about a long period of travels and hardships and the satisfaction- nay, the _reward_ of coming home to the life that was waiting for you.

“A ‘coming home’ song can be about anything really, now that I think about it, but it’s really just the idea of having something to return to at the end of the day. And I can’t for the life of me find the inspiration to write about it. Every line I think up just feels false, and I’m afraid that if I can see through it then everyone else will be able to as well.”

Geralt hums, thinking. 

“Do you not have anything like that?” 

Jaskier looks stricken for a moment, glancing up at Geralt and then quickly away. He twists his fingers around each other, worrying them over and over until Geralt finally removes his hand from Jaskier’s back and takes both of them into his. 

“Jaskier,” he says, and then very gently, feeling the weight of the situation finally settling on him, “Don’t you have me?”

Jaskier looks at him, eyes watering dangerously, and asks smally, “Do I?”

Geralt rears back, struck by his uncertainty. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. He thought Jaskier knew. He thought he’d been- he thought _they’d_ been-

He closes his eyes. _Of course._

“Do I have you, Geralt?” Jaskier asks again, voice gaining strength. “We travel together, fight monsters together, bathe together, sleep together, but- but does that really mean that I have you? At the end of the day, we might be together, but am I really something you “return” to?” 

“Jaskier, you’re not making any sense-”

“I’m being perfectly clear, Geralt!” he yells, pushing Geralt’s arm off him and sitting up. “You have me! You have had me since the day I saw you in Posada, and every day since I have been wondering when I’ll ever be able to say _I_ have _you_!”

“Jaskier-”

“No! I’m not finished! Geralt, I don’t know how clear I have to make this, but I am deeply in love with you, and not just one of my passing flirts like the Countess, this love for you is bone-deep. It is a part of me- _you_ are a part of me.” Jaskier stops for a breath, but all that comes out of his mouth are ragged gasps, ones that shake his frame with equal parts anger and grief. Geralt doesn’t dare speak a word.

“Every day, I come back to you. I _return_ to you because you are my home. Even when we’re apart, I feel you with me, haunting me with your golden eyes and gentle hands. Gods, and it hurts!” Jaskier sobs, tears flowing freely down his face as he yells. “It fucking tears me to _pieces_ to know that it’s not the same for you! You let me travel with you because I pestered you into it, and you keep me around because I write you songs and get you money and dorm most nights. I’m nothing but a nuisance to you, a distraction, and a fool but you’re just- just too fucking _kind_ to say it, so you let me trail behind you like- like some lovesick fool-”

“Enough,” Geralt barks. 

“Enough,” he begs.

Jaskier just shakes his head, looking down at his hands as they curl into tight fists. There is, for once, true silence. The woodlife has stopped their scutter and flurry, and even the gentle breeze has ceased its rustle through the trees. It was so quiet, so earth-stoppingly quiet, a pin could drop a mile away and even Jaskier would hear it. And then at once, it all comes rushing back. Geralt becomes suddenly and acutely aware that the sound of blood rushing in his ear is, in fact, coming from his own body. The fevered heartbeat drumming its way back into Geralt’s attention is _his._ Jaskier’s heartbeat isn’t that far behind, but he looks oddly calm given his outbursts. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jaskier starts, voice now a small and drained thing. “I just. . . needed you to know. That I love you. That you’re my home.”

Somehow, hearing Jaskier call him his home hits him harder than anything else he’d said. 

Home meant so many different things. Warmth and shelter. Happiness. Memories. 

Safety.

Jaskier felt _safe_ with him. After years of running for his life because of Geralt’s profession-- regardless of his own self-inflicted idiocies-- Jaskier looked at Geralt and still saw someplace he was safe. Someone who kept him that way, who sheltered him, kept him warm and relatively happy, someone who shared and built memories with him. For a moment, Geralt feels overwhelmed, unable to name what he is feeling because he’s feeling _all of it_. If ever there were a time for him to cry, now feels certainly appropriate. He almost does, but Jaskier is still one breath away from tears and Geralt has to be strong. Has to hold together just a little longer even though he feels like he’s shaking apart. 

“Jaskier-”

“I said you didn’t have-”

“But I am. Speaking. Or trying to, if you would let me.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, but he does huff lightly as he sits up to mirror Jaskier’s position. “I’m not as gifted with words as you, but I’ll make an effort.

“Yes, initially, you were more a pain in the ass than good company. But it’s been nearly twenty years, Jaskier. I’ve come to know you Jaskier,” he says, then makes sure to catch his eye before finishing, “As a friend.”

“Geralt-” Jaskier breathes, eyes blown wide. This isn’t the first time Geralt’s made it known to him that he considers Jaskier a friend, but this is the first time he’s actually verbalized it. 

Geralt raises his hand and Jaskier cedes. “And recently, I’d thought we had begun to move towards something. . . _closer_ than that. But I understand if my intentions have not been clear. It’s difficult for me to speak of such things. But Jaskier, I love you, too. It wasn’t instant, but it’s there, and it burns like an everlasting flame.”

“You burn for me?” he whispers.

“I burn, Jaskier. I ache, unlike any other pain I’ve felt. And it’s good, something that even if I could, I wouldn’t take a potion to wipe out.”

They’ve locked eyes now, molten gold against cornflower blue. For a moment-- one suspended, everlasting moment, that’s all they can do. Jaskier had held his breath as Geralt spoke, and now it seems like he can’t find it. He scans Geralt’s face, studies the line above his brow that he knows to twitch when Geralt’s lying. Eyes the way his mouth draws down in a frown, worried. Watches his shoulders as they rise and fall unsteadily, so opposed to his usual calmness. It’s like seeing Geralt for the first time. After thousands upon thousands of minutes knowing this stoic and guarded man, Jaskier has finally scaled his walls and actually peeked over into the swirling mess he’d always guessed was inside. And it’s overwhelming. Jaskier knows every word in his language, a great many in others, but none seem to fit the bill of this particular feeling. He supposes it’s all of them, overlapping into an unrecognizable heap. It presses at the back of his throat, makes his eyes water, and lungs ache. Jaskier closes his eyes and breathes for the first time in what feels a lifetime. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Jaskier states. “Is that okay?”

Geralt only nods, but there’s such a look of relief in his eyes that Jaskier can’t resist. He doesn’t surge forward, doesn’t clash against Geralt like the storm that’s raging inside him begs him to do. He lifts to his knees and shuffles forward, moving slowly until they’re sharing the same air. And then he brings his right hand up to his face, brushes a strand of white hair from Geralt’s temple. Geralt is watching him like a hawk, but he looks more like a deer facing down the end of a nocked arrow. Jaskier chuckles lightly. 

“Don’t look so afraid,” he says. “I won’t bite. . . unless you ask me to.”

A low grunt comes from Geralt and Jaskier smirks. He leans forward another half-inch until their lips are just barely touching, and noses at Geralt lightly. 

“Still okay?” Jaskier asks, watching as Geralt’s eyes slip closed. He only has time to see a short nod from Geralt before his eyelids drop and he’s kissing him. Just a soft press of his lips against Geralt’s, a barely-there thing, but it ignites something within him. He presses more urgently against Geralt’s lips, moving encouragingly against them until Geralt gets the hint and mirrors his actions. Two hands settle on Jaskier’s hips, holding him steady, and Jaskier whines when Geralt digs his fingers in. Then Geralt tongues at his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and gently biting down, and Jaskier loses control. Whatever thought of taking things slowly dissipates and he’s hauling himself onto Geralt’s lap, tangling his hands into his hair and tugging. His other hand travels down the back of Geralt’s shirt, feeling the muscles there as they shift beneath skin. The first touch of their tongues has Jaskier digging his nails in and raking them upward, over and over as Geralt groans into his mouth. 

With one hand the small of Jaskier’s back, Geralt flips them down onto the bedroll and settles heavily on top of him. Jaskier breaks the kiss with a surprised gasp, but it quickly transforms into a drawn-out moan as Geralt starts kissing down his neck. He sucks and nibbles on Jaskier’s throat and collar bones until he’s sure a mess of bruises will bloom prettily on his pale skin come morning. He spends a particularly long time along the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, so much so that Jaskier has to grab either side of his face and haul him back into a kiss. He swings a leg over Geralt’s thigh and forces him down harder, grinding up against him and moaning deeply at the new friction. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” he gasps, yanking at his shirt until it comes loose from his pants, then more insistently until Geralt pulls back enough to wrench it from his body completely. Jaskier tries to follow suit, pulling up his own shirt, but Geralt knocks away his hands and shifts down to his belt line. Then, with patient hands, he pushes up Jaskier’s shirt slowly, dipping down to kiss at every inch of skin uncovered, stopping to swirl his tongue in Jaskier’s belly button-- which is unusually erotic and has Jaskier desperately biting down on his fist to stifle a moan. 

“If you don’t hurry it up I’m going to explode,” Jaskier warns, and Geralt simply chuckles. He takes either side of the fabric in his hands and then rips it in two, an alarmingly hot sight that has Jaskier forgetting that it was his favorite shirt just ruined. “Melitele, that had no business being that sexy.”

“Stop talking,” Geralt grunts without any bite. 

“Why don’t you come up here and make me?” he teases, looking down at where Geralt is still lavishing his chest. With a smirk, Geralt works his way back to Jaskier’s mouth, making a pit stop to swirl his tongue around a nipple on the way and gently blow on it afterward. It makes Jaskier whine again, clawing at his shoulders. He bucks his hips upward and they both groan, suddenly aware of their pressing needs. 

“Why don’t I,” Geralt starts, breaking another kiss, “find something else to busy your mouth with?”

A bolt of electricity shoots down Jaskier’s spine. “Oh yeah? I thought the kissing was doing a well enough job, so what do you-”

Geralt’s hand surges up and captures Jaskier’s jaw, like a modified choke-hold, and it makes Jaskier gasp with arousal. 

“Again with that incessant chirping, little lark.” Geralt moves Jaskier’s head to the side and then whispers into his ear some of the filthiest things Jaskier ever heard in his life. Geralt pulls back to look him in his eyes and asks, “That sound alright?”

Jaskier instantly starts nodding his head, pupils blown wide with want and heat pooling in his gut at all the images Geralt implanted swirling around his head. 

“Well then,” Geralt responds, then pushes off Jaskier and lands on his back beside him. He crosses his arms behind his head and then nods at his groin while looking at Jaskier. “Try not to choke.”

“Oh my gods,” is all Jaskier can muster as he clambers on top of Geralt and hurriedly pulls at his tie strings. “Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my gods. . .”

He does, in fact, choke, multiple times, but if anything the obscene gagging and heaving gasps that follow only adds to the atmosphere. Eventually, Jaskier can’t even speak, his throat so raw it hurt. However, it doesn’t stop him from trying as Geralt works him open with one, two, three fingers and then sinks inch by inch into him. By the end of it, with both of them curled around each other, Jaskier wasn’t sure what was up or down, let alone of any words. 

The fire had dwindled some, but still flickers enough for Jaskier to see without much strain. So he watches Geralt’s chest rise and fall with each breath, playing with his chest hair until Geralt reaches up and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Jaskier smiles drowsily and lets his eyes droop closed. Less than a minute later, while he’s on the edge of sleep, a thought flashes through his mind. His eyes snap open and he springs up, searching around the campsite while a very disgruntled Geralt watches on. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, annoyed. 

“Looking for my notebook- aha! Here it is,” he exclaims, then settles back down beside Geralt and flips to an open page before scribbling hurriedly. Geralt watches him curiously, and when Jaskier catches him looking, he raises an eyebrow. “I’ve had an idea, Geralt. An _idea_! Now that I know you feel the same, writing this song doesn’t feel so hollow anymore. I think I can actually do this!”

“Do not write about what we just did, Jaskier.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he reassures, looking fondly towards him. “This night is for us and us alone. You’re _mine_ , and no one else gets even a hint of what we do between our sheets.”

Geralt chuckles lightly, but a bubble of affection builds in his chest at hearing Jaskier call him _his_ with such conviction. So he simply curls around Jaskier’s waist and lets him write as he pleases, listening to his excited murmurings and humming until eventually being lulled into a light doze. The last thing he feels is Jaskier’s gentle fingers smoothing over his forehead and a light kiss being pressed to his forehead. 

“Goodnight, dear heart,” Jaskier whispers, and then Geralt is asleep, feeling secure in the home he’s found in Jaskier. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what a "coming home" song is either, I just made it up for the sake of conflict and the ensuing sexy-time resolution. Just run with me on this one. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear feedback! It feeds my will to live, even if it's in a different language, or twelve consecutive emojis, or a single letter of a word. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!!! <3


End file.
